


Lausanne

by neuroglam



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Chris needs to be canonized and his cat is called Martha, M/M, Non-Monogamy, loosely based on the recent doping scandal and Russia being banned from Pyeongchang 2018, this may or may not be leading to a yuri/vic/chris i can't decide, victuuri break-up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-02-15 11:30:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13030125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neuroglam/pseuds/neuroglam
Summary: Victor gets stripped of his Sochi gold on a Wednesday morning, by letter.





	1. Chapter 1

Victor gets stripped of his Sochi gold on a Wednesday morning, by letter. It’s got WADA’s official logo on the envelope and he opens it calmly in between bites of scrambled eggs and black coffee. Yuuri watches him from the other side of their kitchen table.

Victor knows what it’ll say. Getting busted feels half-numb, half like that time when he tried to walk out of a department store with a stash of make-up and got stopped by an employee, and Yakov had to come to the store and get him. 

Victor takes a sip of coffee and folds up the letter.

Yuuri keeps staring.

Victor tilts his head and fiddles with his cell phone. He spends maybe thirty seconds looking at it, eyes a little unfocused. He imagines that to someone who doesn’t know him, it wouldn’t look very far off from his usual zany, slightly spaced-out manner.

He wonders what it looks like to Yuuri.

Without meeting Yuuri’s eyes, he opens his contacts and scrolls. Dials.

“Chris,” he says brightly when the call connects. “Congratulations!”

“Fucking… _fuck you_ ,” Chris says with uncharacteristic harshness right before disconnecting the call.

Victor dials again. Yuuri keeps watching. “Listen, Chris,” he says when Chris picks up—because Chris _will_ pick up: they go too far back. “You have to take him at your rink. He’s got too much ahead of him to stay in Russia.” He doesn’t say who “he” is. Chris knows. “The fees… we’ll sort them out somehow. I’ll sort them out.”

Chris just sighs deeply into the phone.

“I’d take him to Japan, but I can’t,” Victor says. “I’m compromised. He has to get away from this entire mess; he doesn’t need to be around for the media shitstorm when it hits-”

Yuuri keeps watching. His coffee cup’s been stuck mid-air for the last five minutes. Victor plows ahead. “Please, Chris. For me.”

“For _you_??”

Chris is pissed. Victor gets why he would be. “For him. For whatever’s gonna get you to do it.”

On the other end of the line, there’s silence. “How are you holding up,” Chris says eventually, softer.

“OK.” Victor shrugs even though Chris can’t see. “It’s not like I didn’t see it coming.” Yuuri’s eyes are still boring into him. He’s still not meeting them, looking instead at the eggs that he's absent-mindedly pushing around his plate.

“You— you know what? Don’t talk to me,” Chris says. “Close this damn phone right now, and don’t call me for at least two more weeks.”

“Okay,” Victor says. “But please think about it. None of this is any of his fault, and he’s got real, actual talent. He’s a stellar athlete, even without- you know.” Victor exhales. “I know you’ve only been coaching for a year and you already have Elisaveta up there but— ”

“Just go away, Victor. I’ll think about it. But go away.”

“Okay. And… thank you, Chris.”

“Don’t. You asshole.”

“Still.”

“Good bye, Victor.”

“Yeah.” Victor pushes his eggs around some more. “Bye.”

Victor takes in a deep breath and exhales, then leans back in his chair with his eyes closed and one hand still gripping the cell phone. He doesn't want to have to look at Yuuri.

He can’t tell how long he stays like this, just that the silence is absolute. There’s no clacking of silverware from across the table, no sipping of coffee, no cleared throats. The tension stretches, and Victor lets it.

It was a mistake, that. Because in the silence, he actually gets in touch with his feelings--with the numb shock of the shoe actually, finally dropping on the entire doping thing, but also, with the vicious resentment he feels for the man across the table. There’s been news about the investigations for over a year now; it was on TV, they saw it together. Yuuri’d said nothing—no questions, no accusations, nothing—as if it wasn’t happening.

At the time, Victor had assumed it meant acceptance, maybe understanding. At best, indifference. But now, there are _looks_. Also, disappointment, thick and heavy in the air. What had Yuuri expected? Which part of _systemic_ and _state-sponsored_ was failing to get through?

Victor rubs his face with his hands and takes in a breath. Yuuri is still saying nothing, still _looking_. Victor doesn’t look back. Instead, he picks up his phone.

This call connects quicker—Yuri starts ranting at him in Russian before Victor has a chance to say hello. Victor pulls the phone slightly away from his ear. It’s one of those “I don’t know how to do anything else so I’m shouting at you” tirades, insults and invective in-between "you-should-have-done-this" and "why-didn’t-you-do-that." 

“You should pack up, Yurka,” he interrupts softly somewhere in the middle. Yuri immediately shuts up. “I’ve arranged for you to go to Chris in Lausanne.”

“Chris? Why Chris?” Yuri asks, the wind still not out of his sails. “Why do I need to go anywhere? Why not you?” He’s trying to be tough, trying to be _not_ seventeen and _not_ worried and afraid, and it really isn’t working. But that’s OK. That’s why there’s Victor.

“Let me talk to Yakov for a second, will you,” Victor says.

Yuri huffs and there’s static as the phone is being passed along.

Yakov greets him with a grunt.

“You and me, we’re done,” Victor tells Yakov in Russian, no greetings, no preamble. “But he’s got his entire career before him. I’ve arranged for him to go to Giacommetti in Lausanne. He’ll be fine. Like Klishina.” Long jumper Darya Klishina was the only athlete cleared to compete as an independent at Rio—she’d been able to prove she was clean because she’d been based in the States. In a couple of years, with a solid history behind him, Yuri would be able to compete again, too. He’d build a name and a reputation for himself, and he’d be able to coach, even outside of Russia.

Victor doesn’t need to explain. Yakov understands—the state funds you and protects you, but in exchange, you become its tool. So if Putin looks at the Vancouver results and tells Mutko to make sure this never happens again, and Mutko looks at the head of the Russian Skating Federation, and the head of the Russian Skating Federation looks at Yakov... what could Yakov do? What could any of them have done?

Yuri is young. He can still get out.

Yakov only grunts. “Giacommetti, you say?”

“Giacommetti.”

Yakov grunts again. “I’ll need his contact information.”

This is why Victor loves Yakov—why he’s always been loyal to him, ever since his first training camp at seven. Yakov is the type to shout and pound the table, to be gruff and call you names and to never ever coddle you. But in a crisis, there’s no one Victor would rather have at his back.

“Thank you, uncle Yasha,” Victor says softly.

“...and call Gosha, will you,” Yakov grumbles. “That idiot’s been at the bottom of a bottle for the past three days.”

“Right,” Victor says. He’ll call. He’s not sure exactly what he can say, but he’ll call. Ironically, Georgi’s life-long mediocrity—at least compared to Victor—may be a blessing in disguise. Georgi’s got no Olympic medals to strip. The media, when they decide to go for blood, will go after Victor. Georgi might still escape relatively unscathed.

“And you take care of yourself, too,” Yakov says. “You’re not done for. Time will pass, and you’ll weather this.”

“Hn.” Victor says into his phone. He hopes Yakov is right. If anyone’s seen things—the fall of the USSR, the worst of the crisis, now Putin—if anyone’s seen athletes rise, fall, and rise again, it’s Yakov.

“What will you do?” Victor says.

“I’ve had a good run,” Yakov assures him softly. “I hear Bulgaria’s cheap and warm this time of the year. Some of them even still speak Russian there. And they have a sea.”

“Keep in touch,” Victor says. “Wherever you end up, let me know. I’ll come visit.”

Yakov grunts again. “Take care of yourself, Vitka. And don’t worry. I’ll sort Yura out.”

“Talk to you later, old man.”

“Later,” Yakov says and there’s static again as he hands the phone over.

“Victor, what-” Yuri starts again.

“You listen to Yakov, and don’t give him too much of a headache. Call me when you get to Lausanne, Chris has my number.”

Yuri doesn’t argue, doesn’t contradict. After everything, he still trusts them—Yakov, who gave him meldonium and tuaminoheptane, and Victor who told him not to worry, that it’ll be fine.

“It’ll be Okay, Yurka,” Victor says. “By the time you grow into your frame at nineteen-twenty this will have long blown over, and you’ll have a clean history to your name. You just go to Chris and let him train you. He knows what he’s doing. And don’t worry about the fees, he and I will sort it out.” Victor really hopes he’s not lying about this one.

“What will _you_ do?” Yuri says accusingly. To someone who doesn't know him, he'd sound rude, confrontational. Victor knows it only shows how worried he is.

“It’ll blow over for me, too,” he reassures. “It’ll just take time.”

“Fucking idiot, how could you fucking—”

“Hush, Yurka, hush. It’ll be fine. You’ll see. It’ll be fine. Call me from Lausanne.”

“I will,” Yuri says, his voice small.

“Bye,” Victor says, and hears Yuri’s faint “bye” as he ends the call.

Across the table, Yuuri’s still looking at him, still saying nothing, and Victor suddenly feels like he really doesn’t want to deal with this. Whatever Yuuri’s problem is, he can let Victor know—or not. Victor’s got enough to deal with without consoling him for losing his illusions.

“I’m going out,” Victor says as he gets up and gathers his plate to put it in the sink.

Yuuri still doesn’t say anything.


	2. Chapter 2

Victor ends up driving himself to a trail—at least there’s plenty of those in Colorado. He’s wearing the wrong shoes for this, but it’s not a big deal: it isn’t steep, more of a nature walk than a hike. There’s a method to this: when his mind starts going, ruminating and winning imaginary arguments in his head, he makes himself stop, breathe, and pay attention to where his feet are going.

The trail is empty in the middle of the day except for the odd middle-aged lady in crocks and rain jacket. Crocks are one of the American things Victor’s given up on understanding. So is the reason why all Americans own labs. Either that or retrievers.

Eventually, it works; Victor calms down. There’s beautiful trees to distract him. The silence is soothing. He stops here and there to admire the view, snaps pictures. By the time he’s walked for a good three hours or so, he’s ready to go back home, cook dinner, and pretend that nothing’s happened. So he does that: turns around and drives himself to the grocery store.

He’s been to this store a million times; usually, it’s Victor who does the shopping because it’s Yuuri who’s got the real job with the actual schedule. The shelves have long ago faded into the background; his route through them is so ingrained that normally, he doesn’t even need to think about it. Today, though, it’s different. It’s like someone’s taken him and shaken him up: he finds himself weirdly aware of his surroundings; of the people milling by, the artificial glare.

He makes his rounds all the same, but—it’s gotten to him, what happened. He thought it wouldn't be a big deal, after having months and months to prepare, but the letter came and he still isn’t ready.

His whole life is going to change.

He drives back home in the same half-daze, putting groceries away and chopping things for dinner. There’s something comforting in holding on to normalcy. He’d enjoy that, dinner. He throws cubed chicken breast into the wok and stirs it as it sizzles, and finds that underneath it all, he needs Yuuri now. Needs this—them— _him—_ to be a shelter from what is to come.

But when Yuuri comes back, he’s still giving him the silent treatment.

There’s nothing new about this: usually, Yuuri would pout, Victor would feel guilty, cajole and apologize, and life would go on.

But this isn't Victor's socks on the floor, or Victor not calling Mari for her birthday. It can't be fixed with, "Oh, shit, I forgot, I'll make it up to you" or "I'm sorry, I love you and I shouldn't have said that." He can't change how skating works in Russia, or how the fucking FSB was in on it and he still got busted. He can't go back and change the past, either.

It's all so _normal_ , Yuuri putting his coat away, changing into his house slippers, puttering around, settling in front of the TV. "I made stir-fry if you want some," Victor tells him, the way he'd have told him on any other night. Yuuri ignores him and stares at the TV, changing the channel with his mouth pressed together in a thin line.

Victor's resentment rises again—and not just about this. About all the times when Yuuri couldn't be fucked to actually _tell_ him what his problem was so it was always on Victor to feel put on the spot, to feel like crap trying to figure out what he'd done that was so _reprehensible_ —then to swallow his insecurities and apologize.

Well. If Yuuri wants to talk to him, good. But Victor won’t grovel this time. Not about this, and not now.

For some reason, he’d thought that if things ever got rough, Yuuri would stand by him. Turns out, apparently not.

Yuuri can give him judgmental looks all he wants. If he wants to eat, he knows where the food is.

Victor sits at the table and starts poking at his stir-fry in silence.

Two can play this game.

 

Victor goes to bed at his usual time in spite of all the pouting which probably means Yuuri wants him to sleep on the couch. He ends up scrolling through Russian news for some reason. As usual, everything in Russia is great, and look at how the rest of the world’s going to shit. There’s apparently a movie about the Second World War coming out; the poster’s looking very bleak and artsy.

Instagram, when he checks it, is quieter than usual, and so is Twitter. Of course there’s brouhaha over the IOC’s decision, but none of the people who matter to Victor have posted or said anything. Everyone is lying low.

He falls asleep with Yuuri’s back turned to him. Yuuri hates sleeping on his side, Victor knows. But if this is how he wants it, he can go ahead.

 

The next morning, he doesn't want to stay for breakfast. Not if Yuuri's like that. “I’m going out,” he tells him as he passes him on the way to put his shoes on.

For once, Yuuri follows him. “There’s nothing you want to say to me?” he says with his hands on his waist.

There’s three local news vans camped outside, he can see them through the window.  Yuuri probably wants him to apologize for them.

“I don’t know,” Victor says nonchalantly. “Is there anything _you_ want to say to _me_?” So, Yuuri’s feelings are hurt, and Victor needs to feel bad and fix them. Well, Victor’s feelings are hurt, too. So, there.

People try to ask him questions as he gets in his car, but he can’t be bothered with them any more than he can be bothered with Yuuri.

They don’t make an effort to follow him as he drives off. Looks like in the grand scheme of things, Victor’s not _that_ big of a deal.

He ends up going to a diner and getting two free refills on his black coffee. Then he goes drinking.

 

Eleven thirty AM is not a bad time to be at the bottom of a bottle of vodka, Victor thinks. He might even call Gosha. Gosha will get it.

Five minutes later, he’s ignoring the bar-maid’s disapproving looks and is drunkenly complaining to an equally drunk Georgi. “...and I thought he would support me! That he loved me for _me_ , you know, and not for my medals.”

“Yes,” Georgi slurs.

Victor is encouraged. He knew Georgi would understand. Georgi understands about unsupportive, traitorous significant others. “Someone who really loves you would say, ‘Vitya, how horrible, it’s rotten luck, I’ll stand by you and we’ll weather this.’ He doesn’t stare at you and blame you for failing to live up to whatever picture of you he’s built up in his head.”

“Yes.”

“I never wanted that! Never wanted to be on a fucking pedestal; if I wanted that, there’s enough groupies—”

“Yes.” Bless Georgi. “You give and give to them,” Georgi rants, “and you give them the best of you but as soon as something happens or they see a new guy, they’re out the door.”

“Yes,” Victor says. There’s the sound of Vodka sloshing—Georgi’s probably drinking straight from the bottle.

They fall silent.

“Should I kill myself, Vitya?” Georgi says calmly. “This is the end, isn’t it. Who will want anything to do with me. What will I do. I dropped out after eighth grade to skate.”

And okay, this is bad. Victor knows it's bad because for once, Georgi doesn't sound melodramatic. “No, no, no killing yourself,” he says. “It’s the vodka, it’s making you think all of these things. Sober up, and let’s talk again.”

Georgi doesn’t say anything.

“Don’t kill yourself until Monday next week, how about that?”

Silence.

“Look, how much vodka do you have?”

“Two more bottles.”

“Go empty them in the toilet, right now. Come on. Take your phone so I can hear. And I’ll stop drinking, too: you stop drinking, I stop drinking, and we talk next Monday. OK?”

“Yeah. Yeah, OK.”

“If you think about killing yourself again, you just tell yourself, ‘after I’ve talked to Vitya. OK?”

Georgi doesn’t say anything, but Victor hears the sound of the vodka gurgling on its way out of the bottles. That much, at least, is good.

“There’s no point,” Georgi says quietly even as the vodka flows out. “I’ll wait until Monday, but there’s no point. Maybe there’s a point for you but there’s no point for me. This is it. It’s all over.”

“It isn’t over, Gosha...”

“How’s it not over. Monika’s gone, any chance I had to coach is gone… what is there left for me. My own mother can’t even look at me in the face. It’s not that we took stuff, she knew about that. But now that it’s all over the news, the neighbors talk and she’s ashamed.”

"Don't be like that, Gosha, I'm sure she loves you..."

"No," Georgi says with the same calm certainty. 

Victor doesn’t know what to say. He’d have to settle for the vodka gurgling down the drain. 

“You don’t get it, Vitya. You’ve always been the golden boy, and I’ve always been a disappointment. Never quite good enough, always second—”

“You quit telling yourself this, now. It’ll get better,” Victor says, and it sounds hollow even to his own ears. But it’s beats his other idea: _Y_ _ou being second rate is_ _precisely_ _what protects you._ _You can go anywhere, do anything, disappear. In five years, no one will remember that you even had anything to do with _this._ Not like me. I can never escape being Victor Nikiforov_ _._ “Until Monday, OK?" he says. "Give me until Monday. No vodka, no killing yourself.”

“Yes, good. Until Monday.”

“Until Monday. Drink a glass of water and go sleep, now.”

“Yes, okay.” Georgi closes on him before Victor’s had a chance to say a proper goodbye.

 _Gosha says he’s thinking of killing himself_ , he texts to Yakov. _Will you go check up on him tomorrow? And Chris’ number is +41-21-554-69-69._

‘ _fine_ ' is the only thing he gets back, but it still makes him exhale in relief. Yakov’s got this.

Now, sobering up.

But before that, maybe one last vodka.


	3. Chapter 3

“You’re drunk,” Yuuri tells him accusingly when Victor stumbles home at around five.

“Yeeeees—” Victor says as he toes of his shoes.

Yuuri’s looking at him with his lips pursed and his arms crossed across his chest. “Is that all you’re going to say?”

“What do you want me to say?” Victor flops himself in the middle of the couch. “Did you want me to apologize to you or something?” Yes, there’s disdain in his voice, and yes, he is bitter. “Your pedestals are your own problem.”

Yuuri looks at him like he’s the most selfish scum on Earth. “My pedestals? That’s what you think this is about?”

Victor's very curious to see what Yuuri thinks it's about, if it's not about that. 

“The thing is, you lied to me, Victor. You lied to me, and you lied to the world, about who and what you were-”

 _No. You_ _lied_ _to yourself,_ Victor wants to say, but doesn’t. “Bring me a glass of water, will you.”

“Go get it yourself,” Yuuri snaps at him and disappears somewhere out of his field of vision. He comes back dressed, with a sports bag around one shoulder. “I’m going to visit Phichit for a couple of days.”

“Yes, fine,” Victor says with his head hanging back and his eyes closed. What does Yuuri want, to be begged to stay?

“Don’t call me,” Yuuri spits.

“Wasn’t going to.”

“And to think that I never really knew you,” Yuuri says on his way out, looking back into the living room with one hand on the door handle.

“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” Victor shouts as the door slams shut.

 

Victor does sober up, and Georgi doesn’t kill himself. An acquaintance of Yakov's from the good old Komsomol days, now close to retirement as a dean at a third-rate provincial university, has Georgi enrolled in a sports psychology degree, no questions asked about a high school diploma.

The plan is for Georgi to establish an academic history and improve his English, and in a couple of years, transfer to a university in the West with a sob story and a sincere desire to study coaching and ethics. Someone might even give him a scholarship.

Victor’s got no idea if it’ll work.

But overall, it’s not a bad plan. Georgi’s many things—he’s melodramatic and he’s mediocre, but he’s also sensitive and loyal, and for all that Victor and Yuri look down on him, he’s the third highest ranked skater in Russia. He's a professional athlete, and you don’t get there without a work ethic. He _would_ make a good psychologist, too, of the coaching kind or not.

Victor tells him this when they talk on Monday.

Georgi sounds sincerely touched to hear it. It makes Victor feel vaguely guilty for being the type of friend who’d make saying something positive be this exceptional.

 

 

The house is empty without Yuuri in it. Victor doesn’t call him. He knows that by now Phichit would have told him all kinds of things—how unethical Victor has been, how Yuuri deserves better than this, how remiss Victor was not to comfort Yuuri over the obvious disappointment he’d caused.

How Victor’s lied, by never sharing anything.

How it’s not Yuuri’s fault at all, that he never asked.

Would Yuuri feel sorry at all, for not comforting Victor? For not standing by him when things got tough?

It’s immaterial.

Victor’s angry that Yuuri’s illusions are more important to him than the reality of Victor—well, Victor’s not making _that_ mistake. Yuuri’s shown who he is: someone who chooses to walk around problems instead of confronting them. Victor’s not going to cling onto the illusion that what they had, if it was anything other than an illusion to begin with, would ever be his pillar of strength in a crisis.

He’s seen who he can lean on, and who his true friends are: Yuri, who’d worried and cared, Yakov who’d always—always—done what he’d needed to do, and Georgi, who he’s trained with, day in and day out, for more than twenty years, and who managed to listen to him whine even when his own situation's objectively worse. Chris, who in spite of everything, picked up the phone. These were his people. The Yuuri thing was nice while it’d lasted—the charming romance, the rings, the love.

Victor looks down at his hand. The band’s still around his left hand middle finger.

He slips it off and goes to pack his bags.


	4. Chapter 4

Victor’s boxes arrive in Lausanne before him; he doesn’t even call before he ships them. He leaves his ring in the middle of the coffee table, spends three days in Tokyo waiting for his express tourist visa, and stumbles out of a cab in front of Chris’ on the morning of day four.

“You’ve got some nerve,” Chris tells him, but opens the door to let him in anyway. Victor’s glad—so glad—to find Yuri look at him from the middle of the living room, hair tied messily behind his neck and arms hanging next to his skinny frame like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. There’s bags under his eyes, and bruises on his elbow.

Victor raises an eyebrow at him.

“Getting off that shit fucking sucks,” Yuri says, still not quite knowing what to do with himself.

Victor looks at him and figures—why not. He opens his hands in invitation. Yuri looks at him, uncertain for a moment, before walking up and melding himself to Victor's body.

“You smell like a fucking plane,” is the only thing he says.

Victor shares a look with Chris over Yuri's head.

“Guest room’s taken,” Chris says.

“He can sleep in my bed,” Yuri says into Victor’s beige coat. The fierce and possessive thing in his voice—Chris must have heard it, too, because he raises an eyebrow at Victor.

“We’ll just cuddle,” Victor says, not exactly sure for whose benefit.

“Fuck you, you fucking asshole,” Yuri says and clings.

Victor figures he quite likes being clung to. So many fucking changes, so short a time—their entire lives have been flipped around. Having someone stick with him, it’s not so bad. Not bad at all.

“Tell me you’re not fucking going away this time,” Yuri murmurs in Russian. “I mean there’s the boxes, but… tell me you’ll stay.”

Behind Yuri’s back, Chris tilts his head to the side.

Victor shrugs a shoulder. _What can you do_. “I’ll stay.” Victor says, even though he hasn’t thought that far ahead. It doesn’t feel wrong.

Yuri sighs, relieved, and clutches at him even harder. “Yur, my ribs,” Victor chides gently and hugs him back.

Yuri tucks his head under Victor’s chin, and boy does it feel good to exist without someone being _disappointed_ at him.

“Might at least want to move it to the couch,” Chris chuckles and rubs across Yuri’s shoulders. This part is not surprising. The surprising part is, Yuri lets him.

Victor raises an eyebrow at Chris above Yuri’s head. Chris wiggles his.

Some things never change. Right now, Victor needs that.

 

Victor falls asleep on the couch, and it’s a mistake. He wakes up at two AM because god knows what time his body thinks it is, and spends the next half an hour regretting all the aches, pains and cricks he’s now got. He’d get up, but Yuri’s asleep on his chest. It’s kind of like when the house cat’s asleep on you—there’s a moral imperative deep down that doesn’t let you move.

Yuri’s body is heavy on his, and it’s such a comfort. His hair is such a comfort. The uncomplicated way in which he trusts Victor. How he wore his heart on his sleeve when he followed him to Hasetsu, and later when he worried, and today when he said, “don’t go.”

Victor needs to be comforted. It’s the middle of the night, so he can at least admit to himself that much.

“Yurka,” he murmurs and nudges Yuri’s shoulder.

“Hmm?” Yuri’s head moves up. Sleepy eyes blink at him.

“Move. I need the bathroom.”

“Vit,” Yuri says and sneaks his hands around his torso to keep him in place. “You’re here.”

“Move or I’ll piss on Chris’ couch. And you’ll be in the wet spot. I’ll be back.”

Yuri unfolds and stretches with an ease Victor would frankly like to murder him for. He follows after, groaning.

He’s been in this house before, so he finds the bathroom easily.

Potya zooms out around his feet as soon as he opens the door.

“Fuck, now they’ll fight again,” Yuri says from the living room. As Victor closes the bathroom door, he hears hissing.

“Martha, no! Shit,” Yuri’s voice drifts in, muffled. “Come to my room when you come out, I need to take Potya away or the cats will fight.”

“Aa,” Victor says and shakes it.

Which is how he ends up in an actual, proper bed—and doesn’t _that_ feel divine—with little Yurka’s head on his shoulder and a leg on top of his. Behind Yuri’s back is Potya the cat. “Chris even tried to get them stoned together; put them both in the living room and gave them catnip,” Yuri mumbles sleepily. “They’re supposed to get used to being chill around each other, or something. But no. Fight like fucking… hnn.” Yuri adjusts himself and cuddles closer. “Chris says more catnip.”

“How’s that been? Chris.” 

“He’s OK. Was really nice to me. Said, ‘none of this shit is your fault, you just focus and skate and everything’s gonna fall into place.’”

“He’s right.” Victor’s grateful. Later, he’ll tell Chris that he’s grateful.

“Also said not to be pissed if he kills you when he sees you. Told’im to line up.”

Victor chuckles. Definitely telling Chris he’s grateful. Just, Victor’s usual method of gratitude involves Victor on his knees, and he doesn’t know how Yuri will take that, on top of everything that’s happened.

“Beks says, thank fuck he failed out of Yakov’s master class,” Yuri keeps mumbling. That’s something Victor didn’t think to ask about, and he should have. Otabek is relatively safe while everyone’s focused on Russia, but Kazakhstan’s right behind them when it comes to of stripped Olympic medals by country. In 2012 their entire weightlifting team got busted. Victor’s got zero doubt that if he’d stayed in Almaty, Otabek would’ve doped—maybe still does, one god knows.

“Tell him to lie low,” Victor muses at the ceiling. “It’s so tempting, the older you get. But the risk isn’t worth it. Not right now.”

“Yeah. He’s staying clean, too, bitches about it all the time on Skype. It’s not like he can talk to fucking JJ about it. Dude thinks if you take a pill God will come down and smite you.”

“Good,” Victor says in the dark. “I’m glad he’s good. Tell him, if he wants to, he can talk to me, too.”

“Hnn. I will.” Yuri mumbles.

“Go back to sleep,” Victor says and buries his fingers in his hair.

“Aa.”

Yuri sighs again and settles down. With time, his breathing evens out. But Victor can’t sleep. Maybe it’s shell shock, maybe it’s the time difference, but he’s stuck staring at the ceiling and listening to the sounds from outside.

That’s the weird part about having an actual house, with an actual yard, somewhere with actual nature. It’s never really quiet. Victor is a city kid, so it’s always thrown him for a loop.

“Vit',” Yuri whispers in the dark.

“I thought you were asleep,” Victor says and pets his hair.

“No, I…”

“What.”

“Um. Do you think I’d be able to skate,” Yuri asks in the smallest, quietest voice Victor’s ever heard him use. “If I don’t take anything. Will I… just walk out on the ice and… fail. Be pathetic, everyone pointing fingers, going, ‘haha, we all know why you suck now...’”

“No.” Victor cuts that shit before it even has the chance to start. “No pill can give you technique, or presentation, or flexibility, or balance. If it could, everyone would start landing quad flips tomorrow.”

“But I’ve been such a fucking klutz,” Yuri spits. “Falling all the fucking time… I’m fucking ashamed to have you see me skate tomorrow.”

“You’re under a lot of stress. Things have changed.” Yuri’s no longer in Piter with Yakov, and even his cat’s miserable. “What Chris said is right. You just focus, and take it one day at a time. Your body will recover.”

“But...”

“Yurka, even if you’re not on the podium the next time you skate, you’ll be there the time after. You didn’t land on Yakov’s roster by chance; I didn’t pull every last string I had to make sure you can have a career by chance, and Chris didn’t open his doors to you just because he likes my blowjobs either. You’re good. You’re a top world athlete, with the pills or without. Chris was one of the top men’s singles skaters, too. He can tell skill, and he can tell potential. Do you think he’d be wasting his time with you if he thought you’d be a complete flop?”

“Fuck you, being all… supportive and shit. Now I’m even more scared of disappointing you.”

“Hey,” Victor rubs his shoulder. “Think about it like this: you’re recovering from an injury. No more, no less. I won’t be disappointed. You shouldn’t be disappointed either. It’s frustrating, but it'll pass. Just give your body time.”

“Fuck.” Yuri’s crying now, sniffling into Victor’s t-shirt. Victor’s glad. The stress of the past couple of weeks needs out somehow. He doesn’t tell Yuri to stop, just pets his hair and whispers, “It’ll be OK, Yurka. You’ll see; it’ll be OK.” Victor doesn’t even think he’s lying. Yuri did the hard part; left behind his coach, his country, and all he’s known so he can have a chance. From now on, he just needs to put one foot in front of the other.

“Fucking shit-” Yuri says and tries to get himself to stop crying.

“It’ll be Okay,” Victor whispers in the dark.

 

Yuri falls asleep again, eventually, this time for real—doesn’t even budge when Victor decides he’s done staring at the ceiling and slips out from underneath him. The living room is dark and quiet, the door to Chris’ bedroom slightly open. On the easy chair, coiled up, is Martha, who gives exactly zero fucks about Victor and his movements.

Victor pads to the kitchen in the dark and starts a pot of coffee. It gurgles and smells nice. Victor watches it drip with the determination of a man who hasn’t had a cup since Narita airport yesterday morning. As he pours his cup, Chris walks in, in a terry cloth robe and fluffy slippers. Victor’s mind jumps back to Chris at sixteen, not yet bleached and permed, who wouldn’t be caught dead in this kind of lame, middle-aged inanity. Robe and slippers. As if. 

“Don’t you smile at me.” Chris makes a line for the coffee machine. “I still want to kill you dead.”

“Do you want me to blow you?”

“Do you know how many silver medals I’ve got?” Chris grumbles. “Do you? So many silver medals. I can take them out of the box for you. You can go look.”

“I’m sorry,” Victor says. He’d like to think he’d have earned the golds either way, but. They’ll never know now, will they. “I’m sure you deserved to win at least half of the time,” he says. “You can have all of mine, actually. To help with Yura’s coaching fees.”

“Yes, I do want you to blow me,” Chris says and takes a big sip of his coffee. “Before you say something even more annoying and I fucking strangle you.” He sits on one of the kitchen chairs and spreads his legs. The robe falls open around them. Victor looks. Chris has always been nice to look at, and Victor hasn’t had this dick in more than two years. He licks his lips unconsciously.

“On second thought, maybe not now," Chris says. "Come and sit down.”

“Asshole. I missed your dick.”

“My dick missed you, too,” Chris smirks, and Victor chuckles.

“You can’t help yourself, can you,” he teases Chris.

“Nope. And I don’t know why I should help myself, either,” Chris says.

“Are you sure you aren’t open to persuasion? I’ve just had coffee. My mouth’s still warm. Just imagine that going around your dick-”

“Very persuasive, but no. Bring the pot over and sit down.” Chris pushes his mug forward and Victor tops it up before refilling his own.

“So,” Chris says and pins Victor with a _look_ that swipes from his face to his bare ring finger and back.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Victor says quietly.

Chris huffs—just a little, but it still manages to sound disapproving. They’ve had this conversation before, about how it’s good for you to fucking _talk_ , but Victor still doesn’t buy it.

“How are you dealing?” Chris says, softer and more caring, and sips on his coffee. The corners of his eyes are soft as he looks at Victor, and it makes Victor realize—this is why he’s here. The fact that Chris is like _this_. He cares, and he’s touchy-feely, and he somehow makes a space for you to have emotions without seeming burdened or making it feel like a big deal—even when he’s got emotions of his own.

But it is a big deal. If it weren’t for the implicit trust that he could lean on Chris, Victor would probably be at the bottom of a bottle now. Georgi could be dead, and Yurka would be stuck at the mercy of the Federation, his future and professional credibility on the line.

“How I’ve been dealing...” Victor starts. “Mostly by trying to contain the fallout for everyone else so I can avoid looking at my own shit.”

“How’s everyone?” Chris asks.

“Not bad, all things considering. Yakov’s retiring to the beach, Georgi will be starting a psychology degree, and Yurka’s all set with you. It could have been worse.”

“And you?”

“… I don’t know. I’m fine, I guess.”

Chris gives him a look that tell him what he thinks of  _that_ , but Victor doesn't argue. The silence stretches. 

“Looks like you’re being _claimed_ ,” Chris says pointedly.

Victor doesn't know what to say to that either.

“That kid cried when the boxes came, you know. Hid in his room and I pretended not to notice, but. If you’re not serious about him you should probably go somewhere else.”

Victor sighs. “I… I think I’ll stick around,” he says quietly. He knows it’s a non-answer, and he knows it’s not the reassurance Chris hopes for.

“Vitya, he deserves better than being your re-bound. Hell, I’d offer to sacrifice _myself_ to that noble cause but a little birdie tells me that would create more of a mess than it’ll solve.”

 _Re-bound?_ Chris’ complicated relationship philosophy things. It’s much simpler for Victor. Something about what Yuri does makes him feel… okay inside, and cared for, and accepted for who he is. And Victor wants to cling to that feeling. It’s as simple as that.

“He _is_ pretty, though, I’ll give you that,” Chris’ eyes crinkle. “I’d have hit on him so fast if his career didn't depend on me for the time being. I don't want him to end up feeling like he needs to put out in exchange.”

“It’s too soon, Chris. It’s too much.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Just, looking at the two of you, a guy can’t help but want to be in on that.”

“I’m open to it. In theory. Just, not yet.”

“What do you mean by ‘it,’ exactly?”

“That’s what I mean. It’s too soon to decide and be really sure. But… you hooking up with him, if that’s what he wants. You and I hooking up. Whatever.”

“And you and him?” Chris asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, I think… I think I’m open to that, too. Just, not all of it all at once, I can’t...” Victor looks down and rubs his face with a hand. He’s tired. Whether it’s the time difference or all the shit from the past weeks catching up, he doesn’t know. He just knows he’s exhausted.

“Understandable.” Chris sips on his coffee. “Hey,” he says and rubs on Victor’s arm. “I wasn’t pushing for any of it, and I certainly wasn’t pushing for it right now. Just, I’ve found that when things can be this much of a mess, it’s better to have everything out on the table sooner rather than later. You and I certainly need to talk, at the very least. ‘Cause you spent the last twelve hours glued to him, then you started talking about blowing me over breakfast. You see my point?”

“Yeah,” Victor nods and sips.

“I mean, _I_ personally have no problem with the idea that you might really want to trade orgasms and hugs with multiple people, and I’m certainly all for trading them with you, nothing’s changed in the last fifteen years on that account, but...”

“I don’t know,” Victor says.

“Ok, simple questions: do you want to hook up with me?”

“Yeah.” Victor wants that tie back. He’s been missing Chris, and something about sucking each other’s dicks has always made their friedship feel like… more.

“And do you want to hook up with him?”

Victor thinks. It requires seeing his Yurka in a new light, all pale and flushed and panting under him and… it’s not a bad image. Just… “Right now all I want is to hold him and never let go,” he tells Chris, because he can tell Chris things like that in the dark, when the house is quiet and it’s some kind of weird time in the morning.

“Okay, then.” Chris nods at him. “You go hold him as much as you need to, all I’m saying is you might want to run it by him before blowjobs with me are on the table.”

Victor… doesn’t want to have that conversation.

“It doesn’t take a genius to see that he’s been into you for a long time, and that it was hard on him when you went for Yuuri. I don’t know how he’d take it if we start doing blowjobs right now.”

Yes, Victor doesn’t want to have the conversation precisely for this reason. There’s no way that it won’t go bad. He doesn’t want Yuri to be hurt, and Yuri _will_ be hurt. “Yeah,” Victor says. “It’s just that… I need it.”

“Need which part?”

“To know we’re Okay. That I’ve apologized and we’re still friends and-”

“You’re an idiot, Victor. If you weren’t my friend you wouldn’t be here, your kid wouldn’t be here, and your boxes wouldn’t be here either. Yes, I’m pissed. This is _my entire fucking skating career_ , Victor, silver after silver after fucking _silver_ because you’re a cheating fucking asshole.”

Victor starts to open his mouth.

“Yes, I know you didn’t really have a choice,” Chris says. “That might be the only reason why I haven’t killed you yet.”

“Thank you, Chris. For everything.”

“Don’t mention it, you ass. Just, that’d better be a _really good fucking blow job_ when you finally get to it.”


	5. Chapter 5

Victor sneaks back into Yuri’s room and under the covers. It’s still dark outside, but it’s warm where Yuri is. It’s nice. Victor sighs and sinks into the bed, content.

“Vit,” Yuri half-climbs on top of him, peering at him in the dark and looking way more awake than he has any business being. Victor says nothing, and for a while, Yuri doesn’t say anything either. “You should know that…” Yuri whispers softly in Russian, “Um, if sleeping with Chris will make it easier for you—for us—to be able to stay here… then... I’ll do it.” He sounds solemnly resolved, and Victor doesn’t want him to sound this way. No one needs to sacrifice themselves here.

"Did you eavesdrop, then?"

"Yeah."

Well. That's... good, in a way. And less messy of a reaction than Victor had feared. “Chris and I…" he starts, because Chris is probably right; things _should_ be on the table. "We made out after his first event in seniors, and it stuck. It was all, ‘If you take that gold again, you’d better make it up to me tonight, Nikiforov’… We’re just like that. Have been like that, ever since,” he explains. “I don’t know what we are. I just know that he’s the guy who opened his house to me in the middle of this mess—and to you, too, because you’re one of mine."

Yuri keeps looking at Victor like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. Victor supposes he can't fault him. "There’s no exchange needed here," he says. "Neither of us has to do anything with him unless we actually want to.”

“And you actually want to.” Yuri says in the dark.

“I do actually want to. Maybe for the wrong reasons, but I do.”

In the moonlight streaming in through the window, Victor can see Yuri's head bob. “And me? Do you... how about me?”

“Didn’t you listen for that part, too?” Victor teases. “I actually want to, too. Not right away—for now, I just want this. But later, when everything has settled down, maybe.”

Yuri groans and drops his head on Victor’s chest. “I also want to.” His whisper’s muffled somewhere into Victor’s neck. “Not with him. With you. And… I can hold you forever, too,” he says, quiet and kind of embarrassed.

“My Yurka.” Victor rubs his back, and Yuri clings.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

By day three, they’ve already settled on a pattern. Victor is in bed with one of Chris’ books by ten, mostly to refresh his French, Potya stretched out on top of his legs. Next to him, on a lap desk, Yuri mutters and underlines in an English book. His shoulders are tense, his eyebrows are drawn in a frown, and he moves through the text slowly, looking up every third word on his phone. Given how much he appears to hate it, Victor doubts this was his own idea.

Yuri doesn’t ask for help, so Victor doesn’t offer any. His struggle with his own crime thriller, he hopes, serves as tacit encouragement. They’ve done this before, train side by side, and just like at Yubileyni, Yuri is altogether too proud to admit how much he struggles with what Victor’s already mastered. Like at Yubileyni, Victor still keeps half an eye on him.

Yuri closes his eyes and exhales, pen dangling from one hand.

“Don’t give up,” Victor says quietly.

“Fucking Chris.” Yuri opens his eyes and looks at Victor. “I’m already speaking English all day—here, and, he’s making me and Elisaveta speak in English at the rink.”

“It’s polite. If you’re around someone who doesn’t understand, you should always speak English.”

“But we’re not even talking about him!” Yuri protests.

“Doesn’t matter. If you want to be an internationally acclaimed coach, you need to learn to be polite the Western way, and you need to be fluent.”

Yuri sighs. “I don’t even know if I want to be a coach.”

Still. “Whatever you want to be, you just dropped out of the Sports Academy to come here,” Victor says. “At the very least, you’ll need to finish high school at some point." It'll have to be a long-distance degree, and the ones that are any good are almost always in English.

“Georgi didn’t finish high school.”

“Yeah, and Georgi’s in Tyumen right now twenty-nine years old and trying to make up for it. Is that where you want to be?”

“No.” Yuri mumbles, and Victor remembers how young he is underneath the bluster.

Yuri knows he needs to finish school; right now he’s arguing because studying English frustrates him and arguing’s better than admitting defeat and stabbing his book. Yuri’s always looked down on Georgi—hell, Victor’s always looked down on Georgi, even though objectively, Georgi’s achievements are nothing to be scoffed at. He dropped out of school out of commitment for his sport, not because he was dumb. As opposed to Yuri and Victor, Georgi’s actually quite cultured—he reads poetry and classical literature, and not just because it would be on the test; he follows the work of famous ballet choreographers for joy as well as inspiration. He goes to see performances with Lilia, and then the two of them have actual _discussions._

Victor makes a note to find a way to work this into the conversation next time; this mess has really brought forth that he needs to be a better friend to Georgi.

Victor throws one hand around Yuri’s shoulder and gives him a squeeze. “You didn’t get your quad flip in a day, and you won’t get fluent in a day, either. Don’t give up.”

Yuri gives him a stinky look.

“It’s what you need to do if you want to have a successful career outside of Russia,” Victor says simply.

Yuri’s shoulders droop. “What if I don’t want to have a career outside Russia.” He’s sincere, now, not just truculent for the sake of it. Victor gets him. Everything’s changed so fast.

He pulls Yuri closer. “It’s OK to miss home,” he says, probably more for his own benefit. _It’s OK to miss home._

“I don’t even miss home, I just feel… spaced out,” Yuri says quietly and drops his head on Victor’s shoulder. “Like… reality isn’t real or something. Like I’m playing theater all the time.”

Ah. Welcome to cultural shock, or at least to part of it. “That happens.” Victor had had it, too—only when it hit in Hasetsu, he’d welcomed feeling the detachment and having to play at being someone else. He hadn’t realized how much he’d actually wanted to run away from himself until he looked back, years after the fact.

“You just put one foot after the other,” he tells Yuri. “You focus, and you skate. It will pass.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Well, it’s true.”

“How long?”

“Six months. A year. Depends. The more you try to fight it, the longer it takes.”

“What do you mean try to fight it?”

“Saying, ‘these people are all weird’ and drawing into yourself instead of being curious about where they’re coming from.”

“ _Chris_ is weird,” Yuri says.

“Aa.” Chris _is_ weird, even by Western-people standards. Most people Victor knows wouldn’t sit you down and say, ‘hey, I was looking at you and that seventeen-year-old you’re cuddling; keep me in mind, will you?’ “But he’s good-weird,” Victor says. “You can talk to him like you talk to me.”

“Yeah, I… we talk sometimes on the way back. And when we get groceries.” Yuri closes his eyes and leans into Victor. “I thought it was so strange, at first. No one ever talked to me like that before.”

True. Victor doesn’t remember ever having heart-to-hearts with Yuri. He’d chalked it on Yuri’s age, but maybe that wasn’t all. Maybe for these conversations of theirs to be possible, Victor had to have tried being in a relationship first—and Yuri had to have gotten out of Russia and met someone like Chris.

“I like talking to you like this,” Victor says, because it’s true.

“Me, too,” Yuri whispers.

 

Because he falls asleep first, Victor is usually first to wake up. He’s learned to watch for the cats as he sneaks out of Yuri’s bedroom and goes to brush his teeth and start the coffee. Martha’s taken to joining him—she’s quickly figured out that with enough meowing and winding herself around Victor’s legs, her breakfast might come sooner. Victor’s taken to feeding her while the coffee drips.

Chris usually joins him at about six in his boring, grown-up robe and slippers. One day, Victor will bury his fingers in Chris' curls and pry that robe apart, and kneel under the table while Chris has his coffee.

One day. Though not quite yet.

“Thanks for getting him to work on his English,” Victor says as he hands him his cup.

Chris breathes in the smell and takes a sip. “I figured, structure,” he says, sleepily waving a hand. “Given all the mess. Training schedule, morning omelettes, dishes, and the book for after dinner.”

Right. Structure. Victor sees it, now that it’s been pointed out to him. Feed the cats, coffee for Chris, tackle the grocery list in-between trying to sort out his life, cuddle Yurka after dinner. Chris is right; it _has_ been soothing. Given all the mess. “Thank you,” he says softly, on both of their behalf.

“Hnn,” Chris says between sips.

Victor likes their quiet time early in the morning. Sometimes they talk, more often than not, they’re just _there_ , sitting in companionable silence and poking at their respective cell phones.

Yuri stumbles out of bed and starts making omelettes at seven. By eight, Yuri and Chris are at the rink, and Victor’s left to himself.

Mostly, he putters around the house and tries to get his life in order.

He needs a plan, and soon. He only has a week left on his tourist visa. It’s really frustrating, not being an internationally recognized athlete any more and needing to follow the travel rules for mere mortals. Thankfully, Yuri’s not a worry: Chris has gotten his paperwork started —apparently, he’s been through the process with Elisaveta, so it’s not a big deal. But Chris can’t sort things out for Victor; Victor needs to sort what he’s doing on his own.

Should he even try to stay? He doesn’t know.

Yakov had texted: he’s bought a dilapidated-looking apartment, the kind of sixties construction which you’d recognize anywhere in the former socialist block, and it looks in sore need of repairs. Victor could help with that, maybe. Yakov wouldn’t turn him down.

Gosha wouldn’t turn him down in Tyumen, either.

But the truth is, he wants to stay. With Chris, and with his prickly Yurka. He wants to be on his knees for Chris again, to figure out who they’ve become, what they’re going to be like. He wants to roll Yuri over one night and kiss and kiss and kiss him, have Yuri’s bony knees lock around his waist. He wants them both, but does he have the right to? So far, no one’s followed him here to make trouble, but what if they do? Neither Chris nor Yuri needs that. Maybe it would be better for everyone if Victor were somewhere else.

Given that train of thought, Victor decides he’ll google how you make cats get along.

 

By mid-afternoon, Victor feels himself quite the expert on cat psychology. He’s tried slow-blinking at both Potya and Martha and he’s written out a reintroduction plan starting with feeding them on both sides of the kitchen door. He’s feeling useful and like he’s contributed to the household, so it’s good. It’s all good.

The grocery list is next. It’s something concrete he can do without thinking too much.

He gets the call in the middle of the grocery store, cart full of oatmeal, eggs, and chicken breast and one hand reaching for a head of broccoli. It’s disconcerting, seeing Yuuri’s name on the screen, and it gives him a pause. Ten days ago, they were engaged to be married. Victor had thought they’d spend their lives together. But it feels like so much has happened since then. The letter, Georgi, Yuuri storming off, Victor packing his boxes. Hanging around Tokyo to wait for his visa. Chris. His Yurka. Cats, three kilos of fluff and congealed evil each.

Feeling kind of numb, Victor takes the call.

“Um, hi,” Yuuri says, sounding kind of tinny.

“Hi,” Victor says. There’s nothing about Victor’s ring on the table, or how both Victor and his things are missing. Yuuri must still be in Detroit.

“I guess, we need to talk,” Yuuri says.

 _Oh, really_ , Victor thinks.

“I think, I have something to say.” _Ah._ So, Victor will be talked at. “It hurts me that I’d even need to explain this; that you wouldn’t even understand why it’s a big deal for me that you didn’t talk to me about something as big as… _that_.”

 _That_ , huh.

“But… you lied, Victor. By omission, but you lied. I love you, so I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt; I thought, ‘surely not Victor; if there was something like that, he’d surely tell me, his fiancé...”

It makes Victor sad, hearing this—that it makes him someone _disappointing_ , someone _bad_ , to have done what he’d had to do—what everyone did, as a matter of course. Well, no, not that Yuuri’s disappointed—that he just assumes: this is good, this is bad. Nowhere in this does he try to understand, ask Victor, “what was it like, what brought you to it?”

And because he doesn’t ask, Victor doesn’t want to tell him. That there were moms, back when they were training for regionals—not even when they were selecting for the national junior team—who’d worried about the pills and what they’d do to their kids’ health. Those moms were told to make a choice. You didn’t get Federation funding if you said no; you weren’t worth training if you weren’t willing to put everything on the line, to do what it takes. No one would stop you from competing. But you’d have to do it on your own dime, and not everyone’s parents own an onsen. Not everyone’s parents stayed sober and saved—and even if they did, it just took one bout of inflation to reduce those savings to rubble.

Yuuri doesn’t ask about where Victor comes from. He just judges him by standards he assumes are universal, and he finds him lacking.

“...it’s not just that you made an absolute idiot out of me,” Yuuri goes on. “You offered to coach me, and it wasn’t even important to you what it would do to my reputation to be involved with something like that; you joined me when I began to coach, myself, and you didn’t think I had the right to know, or to decide for myself whether I’m willing to bear that risk...”

Victor removes the phone from his ear and bankly stares at the screen: the green cicle, Yuuri’s name.

Yuuri’s tinned voice keeps coming through the speaker, but Victor doesn’t listen. He just knows this: if his Yurka was mad, he wouldn’t think it’s beneath him to explain; he’d scream the house down, maybe even break a plate or two, but he’d never condescend to him with, _you should know, what kind of person doesn’t_ ; make Victor feel ashamed and doubt himself, and stew, and grovel.

If Chris gets mad, he’d tell you what about. He’d tell you what he needs from you—to not show your face for a week, or to apologize—but when things get tough, he’d put his hurt feelings aside and do what needs done.

His Yurka knows what it was like. Chris didn’t know all, but he’d asked, back in the day, about Russia and the Federation, and had put two and two together when he’d heard.

“…and if I ever were to come back, I’ll need you to...” comes muffled through the speaker.

Victor looks at the screen a moment more and cuts the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far: what's true, what's not-
> 
> 1\. The doping meds names are real, but I am not sure exactly what they do or that skaters would take these particular ones and not any others. I am also not sure whether there's a come-down or withdrawal period, but it stands to reason there might be. At the very least it stands to reason that Yuri would be used to his body being strong and jumpy enough to do a thing, and would be unsettled and clumsy now that he's got a body with different strength and stamina. 
> 
> 2\. The background info on the doping scandal is real--it really was about Putin not being satisfied with how athletes performed for the motherland and giving the Sports Minister a stern look, and the sports minister going, eek we'll handle it. The FSB, the Russian Secret Service, were in on it, too.
> 
> 3\. How Victor got started with doping was real. I am a different kind of former socialist Slav, but my uncle, now in his 60s, used to run track. As around grade 8, he had to choose: dope and train for regionals, or quit. My grandma didn't want him to dope, so she pulled him back. 
> 
> 4\. Obviously, the fact that the post-1989 transition meant hyperinflation and everyone's savings being eradicated is true.


End file.
